A throaty growl, constant and comforting comes from Tabitha blue, curled by the fire, the perpetuating circle of another domestic day. My precious old cat; my cat with a sandpaper tongue. I know you love me despite what the cynics and sceptics would say. You may prefer a mouthful of feathers to that meat from the pouch but I can forgive your carnage, admire it even: it’s a part of your genetic code.
He is my sweet company, my rough tongued rogue of choice. He looks at me through one grateful eye as I tickle behind his ear. He nudges my hand in appreciation. He climbs to his feet, stretches to downward dog then circles the sun spot, an ‘admire me’ question mark hangs in the air where his tail should be.
He is not the fine figure of feline aristocracy he once was. He got caught in a rat trap by the tail. The vet removed the broken length of tail with anaesthetic and a smirk. One humiliation in exchange for another. But Tabitha blue just wobbled his sexy little bottom as he refound his balance and he survived to prowl another day. Dignity intact. One life down, eight to go.
“You think I am a tamed thing because I share your affection? Think again lady.” He purrs and then bat me away with a paw to show he is still calling the shots. He leaps from the sofa, my cushion king, and skulks across the floor, pausing to stretch with his back turned, stumpy tail pulsing.
“I’m off,” he says, “I am that thing that will never be still. I’ll be back. I will always be back. I am a watcher, the striped backyard tiger.”
Answering the call of the wild he opens the door for himself on the world.
He is fearless.
He never doubts his own importance, his place in the world.
He is truly the blue of angels. My domesticated tiger, my loving lion. He is selfish, selfserving; self-centered some say.
What is so wrong with asking for what you want or doing what’s right for you?
We could learn a lot from cats.
